


crows buried side by side

by objectlesson



Category: Cars (Pixar Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Drinking, First Time, In Vino Veritas, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:34:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29955498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: “No,” Doc promises, shaking his head. “I’m not that sort of drunk.”They’re surrounded by one hundred fractalized versions of themselves spreading out to infinity, cast in harsh, unforgiving fluorescence. Lightning’s reflection looks old to himself. Tired, his blonde hair run through with grey that otherwise disappears in the sunlight. And Doc— Doc always looks old, but in a different way. Like a classic. Timeless. “What sort of drunk are you?” Lightning asks, head cocked. “Gotta admit, I’ve never seen you so sloppy.”Doc closes his eyes. “A lonely drunk."
Relationships: Doc Hudson/Lightning McQueen
Comments: 23
Kudos: 37





	crows buried side by side

**Author's Note:**

> I missed these two so I wrote about them!! forever my OTP <3 TW for drunk sex, but its neither explicit nor dubiously consensual.

There’s a race in the morning, so Lightning hasn’t even had a beer. Nothing but seltzer while the crew ordered round after round, and he’s never even _seen_ Doc drunk so he didn’t bother to notice how much he had. But he’s stumbling now, on the way the stairs up to his hotel room, and he’s old enough he could like, break a fucking bone or something if he fell, so. Lightning ducks under his arm and hauls him up, heart pounding at the way the weight of his still-strong body spills hot and heavy onto his shoulder. “C’mon on, we’re taking the elevator, old man,” he says gently, steering Doc down the hallway, smashing the _up_ button repeatedly with his finger as he tries to stabilize himself beneath the unsteady weight. Doc’s breath smells like whiskey and danger _,_ and Lightning is forced to know, for the thousandth time, what boys who aren't him get to taste when Doc takes them home for the night. He shakes his head and tries not to think about it, but it’s always harder the way before a race, when he knows his voice is gonna be guiding him over the finish line and that feels like some sort of magic, perfect fate. “Funny, I think you’ve done this for me about a million times. S’nice to be the one in charge,” he mumbles, patting Doc’s back, aware of the shift of warm cotton over the bones of his spine. 

“M’still in charge,” Doc slurs, before the words thin out into a shaky laugh. “And I already know better. Know I shouldn’t be doing this.” 

“Doing what, riding the elevator? Are you gonna puke?” Lightning asks, pouring Doc into the mirrored cubicle before following, studying the tip of his weight to make sure he won’t go down. He stays, though, wobbling but managing to successfully brace against the side, arm locked and palm flat against the smudged glass. 

“No,” Doc promises, shaking his head. “I’m not that sort of drunk.” 

They’re surrounded by one hundred fractalized versions of themselves spreading out to infinity, cast in harsh, unforgiving fluorescence. Lightning’s reflection looks old to himself. Tired, his blonde hair run through with grey that otherwise disappears in the sunlight. And Doc— Doc always looks old, but in a different way. Like a classic. Timeless. “What sort of drunk are you?” Lightning asks, head cocked. “Gotta admit, I’ve never seen you so sloppy.” 

Doc closes his eyes. “A lonely drunk,” he says. And then he opens his mouth like he’s going to add something, so Lightning’s heart kicks to life in anticipation, racing ahead. But instead, Doc purses his lips and frowns, and their elevator dings to its stop. 

—

Lightning thinks Doc is starting to sober up because he's gotten quiet, studying him over the rim of the water glass he’s making him drink, and it’s incredible how cutting the blue of his eyes are even when they’re hazy and unfocused. “Better?” Lightning asks as he moves in to help Doc out of his windbreaker before dumping him into bed, but then, his voice and breath die a sudden death in his throat as Doc lays a careful hand on his hip.

“You don't even fucking know, do you?” he breathes out in a huff before swallowing. 

Lightning’s skin prickles, too hot under Doc’s clumsy grip. “Don’t know what?” 

“Hm. What you do to me,” Doc slurs. “How goddamned pretty you are.” 

_Fuck._ So, not sober at all. 

Lightning pulls away suddenly, heart skittering in his chest, eyes wide as he reels back to really _look_ at Doc. Make sure he fucking heard him right. “You know—you know it’s me, right? Hey, Doc?” he asks, waving a hand in front of his unsteady gaze, throat tight with disbelief. “It’s McQueen.” 

“Of course I know it's you,” Doc mumbles, sounding affronted. “S’always you. Always _been_ you.” 

“Jesus fucking christ,” Lightning grits out, scrubbing his hands over his face, noticing that they’re shaking. He can’t handle this—Doc drunk and falling over is one thing, but _flirting with him?_ Calling him pretty? Its the embarrassing, porn-corny shit his own stupid brain replicates when he’s jacking off in the shower after practice. He has _no_ resolve against it. Even if Doc _means_ it—which he’s not sure he does—he can’t _do_ anything about it now, when there’s a race tomorrow and Doc can barely stand. He’s like, a senior citizen. Lightning would be taking advantage of him if he let this thing go somewhere, no matter how bad he’s wanted it, or for how long. “Look,” he says, crossing his arms. “We can talk about that when you’re sober. If you even remember. But can you please, like, for now, just…not say anything crazy?” he pleads. 

Doc doesn't seem to hear him, though, or else he’s not listening. He lays back onto the hotel bed with a thump, every movement sloppy and soft and open, which is—it’s different, at least. Doc is usually so careful in the way he moves, stiff and stilted, like it hurts. _Always been you,_ he’d said, the way Lightning _wishes_ he would, only up against the shell of his ear, those certain callous rough hands shoving down the front of his racing jumpsuit after he’s _won_ and proven himself, somehow, worthy of his touch.

Lightning doesn’t mean for it to happen, but his cock twitches in his jeans. “Things used to be easier, you know,” Doc murmurs from the bed, eyes shutting as he tries to kick off his boots. They’re tied, though, so it's useless. Lightning drops to his knees to help, eager for something to do that isn’t staring at his old man laying spread out in a sweat-sheen on hotel sheets, spilling secrets like liquor. “I used to—you could just go to a bar. Leather bar, or even a park. Slip off to an alleyway and suck a cock and never learn his name. Now—you have to _use the internet._ Fucking talk. Set up a meeting place. Hope he’s not a murderer or a cop and maybe—maybe if it was still 72’ I wouldn’t be looking at you the way I do, but it’s now and I am and how the fuck could I not. So fucking gorgeous. Goddamned perfect. Always all over me. Driving me crazy.” 

“Oh my god,” Lightning whines, pressing his forehead into Doc’s knee and inhaling a desperate, shameful breath from his slacks. “Don’t. I can’t suck you off when you’re this drunk. I can’t—I need—“ 

Doc reaches down and lays a heavy hand on Lightning’s head after missing a few times. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want, boy. But I’d—God, if you let me. I’d give you everything. I’d make you feel so good. You’d never go back.” 

And Lightning is _weak,_ so fucking weak, so he kicks his own shoes off and crawls into Doc’s bed, cursing himself, cursing Jack Daniels, cursing his traitorous dick and how fucking stupidly, mind-alteringly hard it is. He’s sober, technically, but he doesn’t _feel_ that way anymore. He feels drunk off Doc’s booze-hot exhalations, his filthy mouth and every crazy thing it’s saying. “Will you want me in the morning?” he asks, gingerly untucking Doc’s shirt and smoothing his fingers beneath it, razing his nails over the silver, wiry hair beneath his navel. Doc looks at him, a hazy recognition in his gaze, but recognition, all the same. And maybe that’s a green light. Maybe that’s as green as lights _get_ in situations like these, when there’s no leather and no park and no alleyway. 

“Baby, I’ll want you when the world ends,” Doc promises, eyes so clear, so blue, even if the rest of the world is tipping. 

And well. Lightning never learned to pump the breaks, so he cups Doc’s face between his palms, and licks into the whiskey of his breath like plunging headfirst into the sea. 


End file.
